


Counting

by itchyfingers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Fanart, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itchyfingers/pseuds/itchyfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the beautiful art drawn by Lexie and colored by Alicexz.</p><p>The photo is linked to Alice's post of the drawing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting

[ ](http://alicexz.tumblr.com/post/29645534274/lexie-very-generously-gave-me-permission-to-color)

“I don’t count.”

The words echoed in Sherlock’s mind long after he had left the lab at St. Barts. After the fall. After she had certified another man’s body as his. Declared him dead. Lied to protect him, when she didn’t even rate a place on Moriarty’s list as one of his friends.

Moriarty had made the world believe him a fraud. Molly had become one. To protect him. And she didn’t count.

Sherlock knew why he had to play dead. To protect Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. John.

John was the one who was bearing the brunt of this charade. He had seen the tremor resurface in John’s hand as he walked away from the grave that held his name but not his body. John needed him. Needed the excitement, the danger, the adrenaline rush that Sherlock provided in unpredictable amounts at scattered intervals. Sherlock needed John too. John made him a better man, provided him a translator between the rationality of his mind and the emotions of the world. A raised eyebrow, a tightening of the jaw, the slightest quirk of a smile at one corner of the mouth. Sherlock could read John like a book, like a tourist’s guide to the wild and savage world of humanity, and kept him from committing too many unpardonable sins.

John protected him from being hated. At least most of the time.

Sherlock and John needed each other.

Molly didn’t need him, Sherlock realized in those years he was chasing down the rest of Moriarty’s network. Molly was in love with him, but didn’t need him. She dated other men. She had a successful career. She may look fragile and girly, but she ran one of the most important forensic morgues in the United Kingdom, was an expert witness for Scotland Yard, and had put up with his manipulations. He knew now that she knew he was manipulating her. That she saw through him. That he always said horrible things. And yet she persisted in being there for him. Whenever he needed it. No matter the cost. Because she loved him, even if he didn’t love her back.

Love was something he had rarely considered, too ephemeral, too irrational, too obfuscating. But here it was. And it wasn’t a weakness in Molly. She made considered judgments. She sacrificed for the people she cared about. But then she carried on with her life, knowing that her offers were rebuffed repeatedly and decisively. But it would not stop her from loving those she decided were worth her affection. To choose to love another is an act of courage. And Molly was courageous. As courageous as John in her own way.

She was one of the few people that knew he was alive. She was the only one who had the ability to prove he was alive. He had placed his life, and the life of his best friends in her hands without a second thought, because he knew that she would keep him safe. Keep John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe.

And she thought that she didn’t count.

Three years of being alone, of not having anyone to trust and no one to rely on had given him a new perspective on Molly.

And so when he came back, he went to Molly first. He knew John would hate him at first but eventually forgive him. He knew Lestrade would understand an undercover mission. He knew Mrs. Hudson would take him back into the familial bosom after scolding him up one side and down the other for the harm he had done her nerves.

But he didn’t know how Molly would respond. Three years he had been gone. He knew she would still love him. But Molly was brave. Molly wasn’t going to live her life hoping that somehow, someday, he would come back and he would come to her.

And so he stood outside St. Barts, oddly hesitant, wondering what to say, what to do. And that’s when he saw her. She was standing down the block in the rain. She must have come out the back entrance. She hadn’t changed at all. She was still Molly, with her hair pulled back in a practical tail, and a sad smile on her face. He knew that smile. He knew it meant she had finished an autopsy on someone young, too young to be cold and still on a steel table. The rain beat down on her, washing away the grief that she still felt, after all these years, at the loss of a life cut too short.

He walked up to her. Said her name. She whirled at the familiar voice with an unfamiliar intonation.

She saw him, and he saw the hesitation in her eyes, the checked impulse to throw herself at him and hold him fast and secure him back to the London she lived in. He wrapped his long coat around her, holding it up over her head to shield her from the elements, maybe shield her from everything the world threw at her, to give her a moment of safety and calm.

She looked up at him, unsure of what to do in this instant of newness and fresh starts.

“Molly Hooper, you count.”


End file.
